Tag Archives: dominance & submission

Angelus Novus- The Renaissance

Angelus Novus by Paul Klee

The last couple of weeks, I’ve written more than I probably have ever done in this blog. After catching up with all the posts from Shibaricon, it was easy to continue writing, because it felt right. One thing which I have not touched upon at all are the recent changes in my personal life, probably because it has been too painful. This is still very much so. Went out dancing the other night, a man looked like him so much I had to go out for some fresh air.  This will be a very introspective ‘memememememe’ post, so if you are not up for some egotistical soul-searching, click on another post or just scroll down to read something else. You have been warned.

I don’t think there has been a more difficult time in my life, ever. At some point this Spring, while juggling university, there was a shift, an emotional and rational shift in how I felt about my relationship with J. I had been with him for almost 3 years at this point but was not prepared at all when it started to dawn on me that although I care about him greatly, and am extremely grateful and lucky about the amazing time we had together, I did not feel that I could continue the relationship. It was for me, at least, about being honest, both to myself and to him. During the time this took to realise, it felt like my whole body and mind was in pain. How could I even consider hurting someone like him by ending our relationship? But somehow, I came to the conclusion that it was the only thing I could do, unless there would have been more sadness and more frustration rather than mutual affection, trust and love. I’m not used to this, not used to listen to emotion but I’ll rather rationalise and ‘think things through’. It is probably my one and largest difficulty; to listen and to trust my emotions while still reasoning. But somewhere, through the stress and the pressure of finishing my university degree, there were so many cracks that the emotional reasoning became so loud I could not ignore it. There was something there that needed to come out, to be listened too. Almost like an internal scratching, that did not stop until it was listened too.

I guess it is typical for all things to come crashing down in the same time. There is never a right moment,  but somehow, my situation just became the perfect storm; an emotional crisis; finishing my dissertation and three other essays; relationship breakdown; hurting someone whom I cared about greatly; a decision having to be taken in regards to remaining in London; giving up my apartment back home in Sweden, revising for exams; preparing for the presentation at Shibaricon and my first trip ever to the States. And so on and so forth. I guess it became too much in the end, and had it not been for my friends I would probably not have made it through the final weeks in May. I remember being so scared of exactly everything; of myself, of others, of being alone, of being amongst people, of eating, of sleeping (nightmares), of staying awake. It took a phonecall to a friend in Sweden who said to me I had to reach out to someone nearby that made me realise I could not stay sane on my own. Another phonecall later and in no time, two very special people wrapped me up in their care. No bullshitting, no morale speeches, just them reaching out and offering a safe haven. As I stayed with them, the days became bareable; as they gave support, but also space and time. We worked together, ate together, I was reminded of how to relax, could speak to them if there was a need. I was fed copious amounts of meat, watched TV, helped with proof-reading. Dreamt about what we would do when it was finally all over. Went jogging in the morning, cuddled with a dog. Was prodded into writing by being promised to be tied up after 2500 word more. Before moving on to the next chapter, I would like to repeat this; there is no way I would have made it through without you, B & L. Also, Thot who proof-read, cuddled, pep-talked and supported in every single way, with so much patience.

And the deadlines came, and the exams were done, and suddenly, I was boarding the flight to Chicago. There was a strange feeling, arriving to the massive conference hotel on a continent I’ve never visited before, a Lost in Translation moment, when just sitting in my hotel-room on my own. A hotel room is a strange space and as Electronic Doll describes it, also perfect for BDSM. But right now, except for having rope and latex hanging around everywhere, it was not about BDSM, but it was about spending time with myself. The room was big and airy, a strangely silent space, filled with past encounters and guests but still empty.  Strangely, I did not panic about being alone, I decided to take some time and spend it with myself, as that was something I had not done for such a long time. That afternoon, night, following morning and day spent in the room became like an existence separate from what ever it was that frightened me so. Spending time with myself and taking the time do so. Eating, relaxing, taking one shower after the other, working on the presentation, unpack, listen to music, iron (!) the clothes, un-coiling and re-coiling the ropes, thinking about classes and the program, where to go next after Chicago. Defeaning silence with music, or turning off the Ipod to look through the huge windows at the rain  that came crashing down from a grey sky.

And then: the convention started. Pushed out from the bubble of the room, into something else, something completely different. And loving so much of it. Not only was I first forced to spend time with myself, but after that I had to push myself to the limit socially, I could not hide myself, there was nothing to hide behing because rope does not conceal the self, it reveals every millimeter of your skin, strips you raw. At times it became difficult, especially after I’ve tied so much and felt like I was draining myself. But after a couple of scenes with remarkable riggers the balance was back. And during the week, I started to believe in DS again, on a personal level. It was all the amazing DS, the loving, sadistic, twisted DS that was everywhere. And here something started to dawn upon me. What kind of DS I seek, who I am and a re-start of what kink means in this life that I live.

I am a switch. But it is through the role as a bottom/sub that resonates the strongest. It is not until now that I’ve actually started to understand this. I am a submissive, and I switch; indeed I do, but it is the submission, the focus of my mind and my body that I wish to emphasise, it is through those mindsets I really understand myself, a continous becoming rather than solid being. As I have said before;

This is not about a ‘gift’ of submission, given away to be unwrapped/discovered/fostered and placed on a mantelpiece; but an active, ongoing relational action and reaction of dominance and submission, an act of submission in which the only thing that exist is that focus of knowing the self enough to just let go, knowing the self so well that the self is forgotten except for the action/behavior which is required.

And I stand by those words, except that I very much can understand elements of ‘training’ and a fostering of a DS relationship. And then there is the whole switch-malarkey  or switchcraft and how I allow myself to speak of what roles I take. I love the play I do, otherwise I would not do it, and there is certainly a sadist and dominant that is a part of what I do. But fact remains, that if I top/dom more than bottom/submitting a feeling of unbalance and anxiety starts to mount. This is not the case the other way around strangely. So here it is, I am a submissive who switch, a bloody sadomasochist that cannot get enough. There is nothing I regret about this, it is more about me being able to navigate and acknowledge parts of myself that has long been neglected.  Furthermore, kink is a central element in my life. It is a large part of how I know and feel myself and others. I don’t want to be a one trick pony or one dimensional obsessive, but it is so integral to my day to day life; thus pretty much non-negotiable. When I started this, all of this kinky shit, I knew what it meant to me. I knew it was a practice that I did, how it affected me, and who I was in relation to it: I am not my practices; I am not submissive, I practice submission. Now, this has been the backbone of my personal politics in relation to kink. But I’m not sure about this anymore, I’m not sure about who I am and that identity in relation to kink. What I do know is that the practices are a part of me, in that they make me find a ground where I feel like I know myself better.

There has also been a resistance from me in identification, because I feel like it comes with assumptions and labels which are not mine. Just the practical thing about putting ‘submissive’ down on a website or internet community such as Fetlife , it is a simple action, but immediately, I feel like I claim something which is not mine, nor ideas and assumptions which does not fit the person whom I am. This resistance is double, in that it is both about me, but also, how often how fucked other people’s appreciation of submission in relationship to dominance is. These are strange politics that are going on both in my own head, but also in the real world of public kink, both off and online. I know, I know, I think too much, newsflash…

The thing is, that there are safe spaces, such as much of the social group I’m lucky enough to be a part of. They know who I am and respect me. So tonight, I’ll be going to a party and stay within the mindset of bottom/submissive. Last time I did this it did not really work out, but that was mainly because I did not plan it or spill it out as well. Today, I know that emails have been sent, people have been spoken to, ‘negotiations’ been made and we are on the same page.

Tattoo with the quote from Walter Benjamin's 9th Thesis on History

This post has been extremely difficult to write, but thank you for reading. Now, it is time to prep for the evening.


The sunbeams across the floor

We have known each other for years, mainly through the spoken word scene and mutual aqaintances. I must have been 16 the first time we ran in to each other, and two summers ago he made delicious cocktails in the bar around the corner from where I lived a short summer. He is tall, with a distinct look, somewhat rockabilly style, shy smile and a very nice voice. I never really thought there was any interest from his part, which was why I was so surprised when he emailed and asked about next time I would be in Sweden and if I wanted to meet up. It was a busy but very sunny week, and drinks felt like a perfect break from DIY and random annoying stuffs that needed taking care of.  We headed down towards the beach with cider and swimwear, ending up walking along the coast-line talking, before finding a a spot in the hot sand. It felt good, no, it felt better than good. It was relaxing, like a rekindling of a friendship, even though we never been very close. The first dip in the sea this year was refreshing, and I started to feel almost like a teenager again, in that very silly way. The sky was clear blue, a light breeze easing the burning rays of the sun. We spoke about our tattoos, what they meant to us, continued talking about poly and how respectivley finding our poly-identities had changed our lives. There was something… different about him, something more open, settled, and grounded. I think he kissed my hand first, then I kissed him. A slight taste of cigarettes, his gold-tooth feeling smooth, a hint of cider, the skin smelling of sun. My head rested on his chest, and I could hear his heartbeats.

There is something in the way he kissed, and how we spent the rest of the evening together.  We have a drink, talk. And time after time again, it feels so simple. We speak of kink, just by accident, finding common grounds. When returning to his, we make out on the couch for hours, my lips are become sore after all the kissing and it is a bit like being a teenager again. Then there is something rather special when I play with his nipples. It is like playing with an instrument  of flesh. Low moans, deep breaths, half-open mouth, closed eyes, whimpering. In the morning, the sun trickles through the window, beams dancing over the floor.

We continue to meet each other during the following week and we talk, cuddle, kiss, eat ice cream, dance, talk more. There is a security with him, in that he knows what he wants from poly and feel very secure about it. The last evening, we meet for some ice-cream and then decide that we should really go for an evening swim after he has finished his work shift. Said and done. The beach is almost empty around nine in the evening, but we have blankets and swim suits and sit down eating strawberries. It becomes almost a bit kitsch, watching the sunset; the rays of the sun turning dark pink. I run into the water, thinking it should be very cold but it is not. The evening air is now colder than the water. We walk further out, the waters are still shallow, and then I just have to attack him. As he loose the balance we end up sitting in the water, he gasp as I straddle him, pressing my legs tightly against him. Dunking him into the water, seeing how his eyes are so still under the water turns somewhat other worldly, he is so very still, pushed under the surface.

When we dry up, he pretend like he does not need the large, warm cardigan he bought and give it to me. I quickly realise he is just pretending, as his tall body is shaking after the swim and we swap. It means that I can move better now as well, and there is both an element of care there, but also practicality. How am I supposed to tie someone up if their muscles are so cold they cannot move? He is a sweet romantic guy, but I want him, his body and his mind completely focussed on us, on me, on the sensations, not to be shaking due to being cold. Stawberry eating, heart to heart, kissing, watching the sun disappearing into the sea. After literally lying on top of him to make sure he is not shaking anymore we swap sweaters so I can tie more easily. The blindfold goes on, again to make him focus on the feeling of the experience, to focus on us, on me.

It is getting darker and darker outside and the mosquitoes are out in full force, and I have never really tied while being under attack from mosquitoes. Got the thin ropes with me, and decide quickly to only do a short scene, in order for us to come out alive and with a drip of blood left in our bodies. Bloodplay took a whole different dimension that evening. It is his first experience of rope, and even if the tie is a standard one, his expressions of the experience become nothing like a standard one. Prepare for gross generalisation: Usually, I find men having a harder time letting go into the experience, they try to pre-empt the next move, or can’t stop anxiously twitching, requiring a high level of intense and often physical stimuli to settle into what is happening  and to remain present in the moment. Sometimes this can be really interesting and intense, but sometimes, like when sitting on a beach, the mood is different. His body dances beneath my fingers, but not twitching or moving anxiously, it his pulse and heart, slightly shivering skin, that lush mouth open, breathing deeply in and out, only a tiny, barely noticeable gasp. When the shape of the tie is done, I start moving the ropes again, leaning him back into my arms, closing my hand around his nose and mouth, stealing his breath, pulling a wrap of the rope tighter with the other hand. Kissing his forehead, it becomes clear that the bugs are biting through his sweater, and the untying clearly has to start. Sometimes, tying up the ropes is just as good, if not better, than the build up towards the finished tie. But here, it is just as good as everything else. He is first quiet, when we cuddle. Then saying something, and after expressing a wish to go back to his in order to remove my clothes I simply lift my dress and sit on his face. His tongue is working away, the beach is completely dark, can hear the waves, and the geese which are the only ones present except for us. I ride his face, pin his head and upper body down, pinching his nose shut, his licking gets more frantic, the lack of oxygen give him a sense of urgency. I sit there, grinding my wet cunt against his face until I come.

Back home at his, we end up in the sofa again.  Unbuckling the belt while his eyes meeting mine, then tightening it around his neck, pulling the noose tighter and tighter. Holding him down by the knees then releasing the pressure. The evening is now pretty warm, and we go out for some fresh air on the small balcony. It is passed 2 in the morning, and the city is completely dead, a Sunday night, only one or two people out walking. And he looks so incredibly dapper in his smoke robe, it is gold and the decadence it gives to the whole situation only gets better as he kneels down, yet again. This time I just kick back, relax, he knows exactly what to do, and the only thing I need to do is not to get loud, as the people standing underneath the balcony having an evening cigarette would appreciate a bit too much.

Before we both pass out I hurt him some more, he definitely had earned such pleasures, the metal sticks are scratching his back, pressing against his balls, making him whimper and shake. The skin of his back is warm when we fall asleep in each others arms. I wake up in the morning, looking at him sleeping, following the patterns created once more by the sun beams.

Now I’m back in London now and I miss him already.


Takedown- Shibaricon 2011

Perfect soundtrack to this post:

His body slams into mine, and for a split second, the reflex is telling me to go for the throat and/or the crotch. But then, it is not a random person who just is holding me down, it is Lochai, who with a viciously wide grin has just attacked from nowhere. Pushing my body against a wall, I am made to understand that he saw me passing by and thought he would go for it. Apparently I deserved it after what I’ve done to Ava the night before…

“Lay out the ropes” 

A black shoulder bag, already opened a bit. My knees hurt slightly against the carpet that can burn, but is does not really matter. Every nerve is focussed on following his orders. The first rope I catch is the vicious palm-frond, it makes a creaking noise and feels rough against the hands.  I’m not making a single face as it is neatly put down on the carpet, followed by a a piece of jute that feels like silk in comparison. The ropes are sorted according to their kind, with all of the loops facing the same direction, hoping it is neat enough, keeping an attentive eye in his direction.

“Take this off”

His hand pull on the wrap that holds the kimono together. My fingers are shaking, trying the keep them calm enough to untie the knot which suddenly is so very secure. As you probably realised, I am already hyper aware of Lochai, his voice, posture, directions. Not just because of the potential threat, but because of an intense sense of wanting to submit, undergo what ever it was that he had in mind. There is a buzz, an attention towards being ready and prepared, at all times, standing at a mental attention.

When he is starting to tie, it is rough, scratchy, fast, tight but not numbing. The black palm-frond is not that nasty against the skin, the scratching is rather delicious and with quick movements my chest is tied into a TK. The heat from both of our bodies are working together. He is almost fully clothed, I am wearing only my knickers. Exposed and vulnerable, but yet, somehow, focus so strong.  From one second to another, I’m suddenly on the floor, lying down, breathing, processing, the black rope pressing against the nipple, getting more and more uncomfortable, almost like nipple-clamps, as they dig into the sensitive, thin skin. His is talking to me, I can’t hear what he is saying, then nodding when hearing and understanding, moving wherever he wants.

Suddenly, a voice says something; a DM shyly pointing out that apparently, we have broken a rule of the play room when not using a sheet between us and the floor. Lochai laughs; we are both presenters and should know better, he is pointing the finger on me, who is all trussed up on the floor. Cue blushing from my part, smiles and blushes. A sheet is conjured from somewhere, and is placed on the floor.

“Spread it out. Make it work”

Note; I’m tied with the hands behind my back. Instead of being spaced out, there is another task yet again, and I start, as well as I can. Using the body, my mouth, crawling around; using what ever available to spread the unruly sheet out, it crinkles, get stuck. I’m told to hurry up. Instead of getting stressed the order centres the activity even more. I can do, I can do because it is what he wants me to do. He nods, and I’m down on the floor again, into a hog tie. Pulled upwards, the stretch, that missed feeling of ‘I can do this, I can breathe through it’ and succeeding. That kind of breathing and focussed attention, a pro-longed stretch, challenging and suddenly a hand around my throat. Another hand in my hair. Scalp aching, don’t know what kind of sounds are coming out from my mouth, when his hand is close, it opens up itself, it wants to be available, it is available. Body feeling warm, so is his, feeling it through  the fabrics of his clothes against my naked skin. And if he order me to do something, in this position, hogtied, pulled up, stretched, I would make sure I would follow order, despite my current state. The thought hits the back of my head as a “WTF! I hardly know the dude, and yet, submitting so easily” but it is quickly put to the side. No time to doubt, just focus.

This is not about a ‘gift’ of submission, given away to be unwrapped/discovered/fostered and placed on a mantelpiece; but an active, ongoing relational action and reaction of dominance and submission, an act of submission in which the only thing that exist is that focus of knowing the self enough to just let go, knowing the self so well that the self is forgotten except for the action/behavior which is required. A feeling experienced very rarely.

Later, when I wrote to him on a slightly different subject, this what was said:

And you saw me, not only in the operative sense that you spotted me passing by and pounced, but during that whole scene, and it was frightening how quickly I fell into an embodied sense of submission, while still feeling secure enough to not feeling like a poseur. While undressing on your order, unpacking your rope, I could only care about that exact moment in time, your expressed wishes, and, (perhaps stupidly enough), trying to think ahead of any other that you might have had but not expressed yet. Rope feels different when laying them out for someone, and felt different when I placed them out for you. 

The rope that came off was painful, it had dug into the skin enough to act almost as nippleclamps. Cue moans and ouches and enjoyment of a pain, induced through rope, through bindings, through pulling and pushing. Through submission. Through placing out the rope. Undressing. Making it work.


The mischievous one

This is a part of a massive backlog of posts from my part. I’m not going to actually apologize about not writing this time. University is on the last term, I’ve got a dissertation to write as well as a number of other assignments. Thusly, life is crazy, but after a visit from a friend I felt like writing a small bit or two.

I will call her Bird, and that is not because I feel like being a sexist, misogynist dickhead, but because she is really a fluttering,singing (or mostly giggling), shy, but still mischievous creature.After her visit I really felt the need to writing something about D/S and how it has hit some buttons lately. Bird is a girl (self-identified as such) whom I have played with before. She visited the other weekend, and the visit lifted my spirits immensly. Not only is she incredibly smart and funny, honest, open and kind, but also kinky, loving rope and a very je ne sais quio that follows her into her play.

Her love of rope (and cages) as well as the spirit which follows her approach to play is something that I don’t meet every day. I guess it is about that elusive connection that everyone seem to be talking about, including myself.
And then, it could also be that I’m just developing something of a small crush on this girl.

Anyhow, she came to visit, traveling from Sweden and landed in London. We where supposed to attend a club in the evening, but instead ended up at a friends place. Now, this friend of mine is hellbent on owning every kit there is in the world or has ever existed.
A part of this kit consist of a cage, a big, sturdy black cage and when Bird noticed it,she had such a smile on her face it was impossible to ignore, and impossible to not put her in it. But the thing is that she needs a strict tone of voice or physically force to fully obey, even if that order that she is supposed to obey is something that she wish for to happen. Said and done, when she had actually relaxed enough to not expect it, I gripped the back of her neck and pushed into the cage.
After a while the locked collar, the mitts, the locked cage caught up with her, so did the bowl which was filled with appropriate content.

When she was let out I realized what I’ve always thought, but needed to be reminded of, and that is that the play which resonates most strongly within me is that which put focus on the interpersonal action, the dialogue and reflexivity between the play-partners.
I usually don’t do very much animal role-play. I look at it and understand its dynamics, but usually finding myself playing a role rather than feeling the roles of me and the playpartners.  Which is for, me, different from the artificiality, an artificiality that can come with a lack of experience/knowledge, as well as a general disinterest. But stubborn as I am, I like to change that. But how to find scripts that are not forced down the performative throat? And what is the authentic anyway and how can it be different from the artificial?

Everyone can’t do everything. No one needs to do anything that they do not wish to, but when all of this happened on its own terms it was bloody brilliant. It seemed right at that point, right there and then to do these scenes.

A couple of days later, when we had our last evening together, we went out to have some sushi, and then onwards to one of my favorite places for various drinks and dessert. While there, we had some dessert, which turned into one of those amazing D/S situations, one of those I crave, but find myself so rarely in.

Cheekily, I said that I was going to feed Bird the dessert. She was good and did not start on the sticky toffee pudding until I said she could taste the ice-cream that came with it. She obeys, and then I tell her it is fine to try out the pudding as well, but no sauce.
After this, I take the plate away from her, place some pudding, ice-cream and sauce on the spoon and slowly feed her. The restaurant is half-empty and to an outsider it would seem like we are just a regular couple enjoying something sweet on a Monday evening. She is still looking around, as if they could read what is on her mind. I smile, and tell her that she can eat the rest, but is not allowed to make a mess. We continue eating, talking about the past event, her first experience of suspensions, the days in London and her thoughts about life and all that jazz, smiling and laughing.  My sorbet slips from  the spoon, a move that a cheeky sub named Bird picks up and commenting on my sloppy eating that is making a mess. I first smile at her, then stop, looking at her straight in the eyes, and for a second she looks back, and then looking down at her plate, with the look of shame written all over her face.  I laugh at this point, because it is clear to me that she really wants the rest of the pudding. Which I can understand, cause it was really, really delicious. and  so I stretch myself over the table, place one hand on the right cheek, and then quickly slaps the left one with my other hand.
She flinches, saying I can’t do that in the restaurant. I can and do it again, this time a bit harder, and no one has noticed.

I lean back into the chair, looks her straight in the eyes and tell her to take some of the ice-cream that is left on her plate on her finger and smudge it around her mouth. She fails at the first attempt, instead licking of the white and cold ice-cream of her finger, but after another look into her eyes, she slowly does as I say, squirming, trying to hide as much as possible, while still keeping appearances in the restaurant, avoiding to look into my eyes, asking me to be allowed to remove the ice-cream. I tell her no, and order her to continue eating her dessert in the state that she is now in. She does, and after a couple of more bites, I tell her it is now okay to wipe the vanilla ice-cream off her face.

When she does, I realize that even if it only been a couple of minutes, the whole scene had felt like a long, continuous moment of extreme focus. I did not know what was about to happen, it only did, but as we smiled towards each other, her still with a slight blush on the both of her cheeks, I told her while giggling I always had wanted to do something like that.

It rains a London rain when we leave the restaurant, the rain that finds it way inside of your clothes, but it is okay anyway. We cuddle up hugging each other. And I can’t think anything else than it was a perfect reminder of the DS elements that I seek, and that she is very, very special to me.

 


The Gauntlet-men in Pain

It’s easy to find pictures that objectify female form, both in the ‘vanilla’ world and the kinky. That is why I constantly look out for other images. Especially those which objectify male suffering. I still find it very hard to sexualize non-consentual suffering, simply because it is often not erotic. But still, I’ve changed quite a bit and find more and more imagery thats hotter than hot.

Like this clip for example:

An undressed James Bond, exposed and vulnerable and in actual pain, struggling to keep the villain at bay, challenging him still. And some CBT have never hurt anyone before.

But this is a clip that I’m even more interested in. Because there is so many layers to it.

There is the cocky individual, trying to desert from the British Army, only to get caught out, having to enrol in another army. Suitable punishment follows, and as he walks through the gauntlet, slowly and controlled, but in pain. And this is a kink of mine, slow paces that forces the objet du désir to keep control over him or herself. Barry London is an interesting movie all in all, but this was definetly the highlight for me.

But all in all, I’m not feeling very toppy at all at the moment. The only thing I’m really longing for is to speak to a certain someone and have someone with rope bundle me up and move my mind and body. But maybe you will find something that is hot with both of these clips, at least I did.


New horizons

Working away on other projects, such as returning to being social and meeting lovely people, as well as studying my ass off and finding my way back into the kinklife with one of the persons whom I love,  I’m just going to post  a small thing  about some added links in our blog-roll, as well as a link to a very interesting post about a different kind of petplay.

Oh, btw. Is there not a very exiting thing about getting to know people who are really, really interesting? It is very much like discovering new rooms or streets, and it makes you think. I’m doing a lot of introspective craft right now, and being surrounded by strong and wonderful people make life very much easier.

So, a new link to our blogroll is the fantastic Sex in Art. It is a must because art and sex is two good things that I really enjoy. This is just one of the fantastic examples that you might experience if you click on the link:

We also have ‘Letter from a Seraglio‘ with us.  I personally love the style of  this harem-girl’s writing, and hope you also will.

Finally, in this post we read a new take on pet-play. When thinking of petplay, we usually hear about things like cats, dogs, ponies, occasional pigs, but have you ever thought of birdplay?
It is so well worth a read, because it reminds me of exactly why I love the elements of sex in which you have to use your fantasy, dig deep, do research, make an effort. I crave the unexpected, the fantasy turning into reality, tales that materialize right in front of you. And also, because unexpected things, those that do not follow an automatic mode of producing kinky bodies and minds, are extremely hot. Suprise me, pass boundaries, challenge me, and it could be possible I’m interested.

So maybe, taking on a falcon could be something? My father, a very keen semi-amateur ornithologist, took me out birdwatching when I was a very small kid and although the wait was boring, the hot chocolate burned my tongue, the rain to cold and the warm socks not warm enough, I always turned silent when I saw the eagles soar. Is there someone in the world that can do that by emulating a bird? I don’t know, but let’s have a go!


The Lies about the Ten Lies-part 3

We have Zxenu Cronstrom Beskow onboard as our guestblogger. He examines the radical feminist claims abut ‘lies’ told by BDSMers.

The first part
Second part

Part 3: “Sadomasochism versus Radical Feminist dogma”

If Farley had openly accused sadomasochists of not conforming to the dogmas of her particular brand of radical feminism, then she had been correct. But this is not what she is doing. Instead, she’s exploiting mainstream society’s contempt for BDSM in an attempt to establish her very special discourse as if it was a objective reality or consensus viewpoint. She’s establishing a world view where society itself is “sadomasochistic” and where her own brand of radicalism is the ONLY valid resistance against mainstream society. Lets take a look at the remaining four points.

2. Sadomasochism is love and trust, not domination and annihilation.

Good relationships, sadomasochistic and vanilla (conventional/mainstream) alike, are based on love and trust. Of course, there are also bad relationships. There are also sexual relations that are based on mutual lust rather then love. Such a relationship can still be mutual and non-abusive if it contains enough trust and respect.

Farley’s examples are not even examples, merely shallow propaganda. David Koresh was a destructive religious cult leader, not a sadomasochist. Of course HIS kind of dominance was bad – and so was his heterosexuality and masculinity. If he is being to be used as an example of sadomasochism being bad on a general level, then he can just as well be used as an example of heterosexuality being bad on a general level, or of men being bad on a general level. Then again, there are radical feminists who would agree with that kind of argument.

Farley also uses some sexual fantasies as examples. And indeed, these particular fantasies certainly do not seem loving. Then again, they are fantasies. The love and trust is not about the fantasies themselves, but about how they are handled. Also, there are a lot of sadomasochistic fantasies that are very much about love, and many heterosexual and homosexual fantasies that have nothing to do with love.

4. Sadomasochism is consensual; no one gets hurt if they don’t want to get hurt. No one has died from sadomasochistic “scenes.”

Regardless of her sexuality, a victim of abuse is a victim period, not a masochist. She may or may not ALSO be a masochist, but this is entirely beside the point. By the definitions that sadomasochists typically use, abuse (sadistic or otherwise) is not sadomasochistic. The word sadomasochism include the word masochism, and this word implies that the person on the receiving end is there as a masochist, not as a victim.

Thus, BDSM and sadomasochistic sex can never be abusive, but only in the same way as vanilla lovemaking can never be abusive: If it turns abusive, then it is no longer lovemaking.

Of course, there are many sexual relations – vanilla and BDSM alike – that have started out consensual, but later turned abusive. This is a real problem, but it doesn’t men that all sadists (in the BDSM sense of the word) are abusers, and it does not mean that all heterosexual men are abusers either.

Furthermore, there are people who have died from vanilla lovemaking, so of course there are also people who have died from consensual BDSM play. Heart attacks are a common cause in both cases, but when it comes to advanced forms of BDSM there is also the issue of people being inexperienced and lacking proper safety education. Just as with mainstream sexuality, porn is NOT a good teacher for how to do it in real life. Even in its advanced forms, BDSM can be LESS dangerous then vanilla sex – but only if people know what they are doing.

Deeper in her argument, Farley practically claims that it is impossible to consent to BDSM – that the masochist is a brainwashed victim who does not know what she really want or an addict unable to say no. While a convenient excuse to disqualify the experiences of women who don’t share Farley’s dogma, it is simply not true for masochists in general, regardless of gender. (Farley’s argument seem to assume that the submissive is always female and the dominant is always male.) Of course there are individual masochists and victims of manipulative sadists who fit this stereotype, just like there are destructive vanilla relationships that contain addiction or cultlike tendencies.

6. Sadomasochistic pornography has no relationship to the sadomasochistic society we live in. “If it feels good, go with it.” “We create our own sexuality.”

Mainstream society is most definitely not sadomasochistic in any definition of “sadomasochism” that EITHER the sadomasochists themselves OR the mainstream society would agree with. Farley is taking theoretical constructs of radical feminism for objective reality here.

10. Sadomasochism is political dissent. It is progressive and even “transgressive” in that it breaks the rules of the dominant sexual ideology.

Seen from a non-totalitarian perspective, this statement contains an obvious truth. Although sadomasochism, just like homosexuality, is becoming more and more accepted, it is still far from mainstream.

To deny this, one must reduce reality to two groups. On one side, the one and only true resistance (in this case radical feminists) and on the other side the evil conspiracy and all its minions, including all resistances that do not conform to the orthodoxy of the one and only true resistance.

Of course, this only covers the matter of dissent. Far from all dissent is constructive, progressive or transgressive in any good sense of any such word. If one can reasonably consider BDSM and sadomasochism to be good things depends on your point of view.

In BDSM, dominance and submission is optional and not based on gender. One can be dominant, submissive, both or neither, regardless of whether one is a man, woman, intersexual or a gender-undefined queer-person. Being a dominant doesn’t give you any right to dominate someone who doesn’t want to be dominated by you or in a way that he doesn’t want to be dominated. Being a submissive gives you a right to chose who to submit to, when, how and to what extent.

From a queer-feminist perspective, this is very liberating and a useful tool in the struggle for freedom and diversity. From most other feminist perspective, it is neutral: Neither a good thing and a help, nor a bad thing and a threat.

From a totalitarian conservative or radical feminist perspective however, it is inherently evil. It is, by definition, a lie – Or at least a contradiction in terms. One core belief shared by patriarchal conservatism and radical feminism is that men are, by definition, dominant/oppressive, while women are, again by definition, submissive/oppressed. While the conservatives consider it good and the radical feminists consider it evil, both sides agree that That’s Just The Way It Is. Thus, the dominant women and submissive men of BDSM must be explained away for their worldview to remain intact. And an all-out attack is always the easiest defense.

By Xzenu Cronström Beskow

The author is a  queerfeminist veteran, active both in struggles against sexual abuse and  for the rights of sexual minorities. Xzenu has  academic degrees in psychology and sexology.


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